


no attachments / honor life

by theprimrosepath



Series: miraculous star wars [1]
Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Alternate Universe - Star Wars Setting, Clone Wars, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Trauma, Existential Angst, F/M, Mentioned Tikki, One Shot, Pre-Relationship, Self-Harm, Struggling Internally With One's Beliefs, a little bit of it anyway, aka adrien is really bad at it, depictions of PTSD symptoms, how to handle killing people for the first time 101, some depiction of violence/war, someone pls hug this child
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-16
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-08-22 17:57:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8294888
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theprimrosepath/pseuds/theprimrosepath
Summary: *select only one.
Adrien experiences the Clone Wars face-to-face for the first time, and it is nothing like he thought it would be.





	

**Author's Note:**

> disclaimer: i don't go to the sw fandom
> 
> i would like to thank the wookiepedia for supporting me every step of the way, and [thecookiemonster77](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheCookieMonster77), whose advisorship helps power this entire ridiculous vehicle, bless and tysm

Breathe in.

 

“Emotion, yet peace.”

 

Breathe out.

 

“Ignorance, yet knowledge.”

 

Breathe in.

 

“Passion, yet serenity.”

 

Breathe out.

 

“Chaos, yet harmony.”

 

Breathe in.

 

“Death, yet the Force.”

 

Breathe out.

 

Adrien clasps his hands in his lap as he forcibly relaxes, slowly breathing in and out, filling his lungs from the bottom up before steadily emptying them again of air. He sits cross-legged on the dirt floor and breathes, fighting the nausea in his gut, the darkness in his heart, whispering the Code to himself—not just the Code of the Jedi, but the Code of his life. Of Life.

 

Of the Force.

 

He senses it, almost like a tangible thing. Surrounding him completely, just beyond the edge of what he can touch with his mind. Sometimes, the knowledge is comforting—a burden lifted off of his shoulders to know that the Force is always there, not just for him, but for everyone. That even those not sensitive to the Force are always watched. Always protected.

 

Sometimes, though, the feeling frightens him.

 

Adrien can feel them there, lurking as they have all day since the attack yesterday in the shadows cast by the Force’s light. His next breath is rough, quaking and shuddering as he tucks in his chin in, his bangs falling to screen his face in a minor mercy. He squeezes his eyes shut further, trembling, rebelling against the tears and self-hatred that swell up to overwhelm him.

 

Painted across the darkness are laser blasts. The green glow of his lightsabers spinning in his hands, humming their distinctive song.

 

Unlike what he sees in the streets, there is no blood—red, blue, or green—to soak the stones. Only the singed black of their armor as bodies fall and heads roll, death reaping souls that day as dispassionately as a scythe reaps a battlefield of wheat. The organized crime of Coruscant, committed cleanly and with care to avoid the attentions of the diligent police force (official or otherwise), is far removed from the chaos of the Outer Rim, from the vicious and politically vengeful depths of the Separatist War.

 

A knife offers a chance. Hope is blood that still flows. Not so a storm of invisible forces and purring green blades.

 

Adrien claws desperately, blindly at his palms, bile rising in his throat, trying to erase the echoes of sensation in them, of his lightsabers cleaving through breastplates and arms and necks.

 

It would have been easier, in a way, if his blades had shorn through them all like butter. Instead lingers the press of the hilts into his hands as he’d torn through flesh and bone, every ounce of will applied to end hundreds of lives, hours of sweat and heat and killing, _endless killing,_ rubbing away layers of skin and raising raw blisters where the grooves and ridges of Adrien’s blade hilts dug unceasingly throughout the battle.

 

Those wounds bleed anew now, freshly reopened by his nails. They pulse in time with the pounding of his heart, pulling Adrien back into reality.

 

His breath rattles as he recites again, pleading and desperate and choking on sobs that drip stinging tears onto his bloody hands. “Emotion, yet peace. Ignorance, yet knowledge. Passion, yet serenity. Chaos, yet harmony. Death, yet the Force.”

 

 _Why does killing have to hurt so much?_ he cries, shaking from the strength of his coughs. _Why can’t I be like everyone else and not care? Why can’t I stop?_

 

Trying to divert his mind, Adrien imagines the Marinette from yesterday—giving orders to a clone commander one second and deflecting an enemy’s laser blasts the next. Standing firm and unflaggingly amidst the chaos of battle, as if the countless bodies she would leave in her wake meant nothing to her conscience.

 

On one level, there is no word to describe the depth of Adrien’s horror. This cannot possibly be what the Jedi mean when they demand, “No attachments”—callous death. Yet, he knows her. While Separatists might curse her name, _he knows Mari_. He’s heard her laughter, seen her smiles, would bet—has bet—his life that she cares.

 

By the Force, he knows how much she cares.

 

Yet, that care is for her friends. For the ones she loves. For the beliefs and values that she and he and the Jedi hold so dear. Adrien would also bet a million credits that she doesn’t sit in her tent crying every single time she stops for long enough to think.

 

He snuffles noisily, wiping his eyes with the backs of his hands to avoid smearing blood across his face. Before his thoughts can turn again to the events of yesterday, Adrien stands and searches his tent until he finds a spare canteen of water and a roll of bacta bandages. He immediately dumps half the water onto his palms without thinking, washing away the blood as best he can before setting the canteen aside. Carefully, he sits down again and unrolls the bandages, pausing only once to finally throw up what little food he has eaten since yesterday into a waste bucket, and begins to dress his hands.

 

The task is simple and calming, even as his throat stings and the blisters on his active hand twinge and weep—he’s eager to lose himself in anything other than darkness for as long as possible, and so Adrien moves slowly, one inch of gauze at a time.

 

Light footsteps pass by his tent and then stop. He looks up in time to see an unsure Marinette peek her head into the tent.

 

“Tikki wanted me to,” she says, and then freezes when she sees his hands. “Are you okay?”

 

Adrien freezes too, but like an animal caught in the headlights of a landspeeder. _Emotion, yet peace. Chaos, yet harmony. Don’t show it, don’t show it, don’t show it,_ his instincts chant, and he follows them without thinking. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just tripped and scraped up my hands on the ground.” He’s surprised to hear how normal his voice sounds. At her frown and glance down at the smooth floor of his tent, he adds, a bit too quickly, “My palms were still busted up from fighting for so long yesterday. Funny how training gives you so many callouses that don’t even mean anything once you’ve been on a battlefield more often than off one for an entire day.”

 

Her frown only grows deeper.

 

 _Adrien, you’re rambling. **Shut up.**_ He forces his mouth closed and fidgets with the bandages in his hands.

 

Why did he lie? He trusts Mari, doesn’t he?

 

“Well. Um. That’s actually what Tikki sent me for. I mean, not about your hands getting hurt just now! She’s not that good. I meant about the battle. And, um, what happened.” Mari ducks in through the flap of the tent. Her clothes are the same as yesterday’s: snug, worn brown leather and sturdy, dirtied boots, her rose-gold padawan braid dangling beside her bare lekku. Even her shirt, loose and cropped short, Adrien recognizes from the battle; there’s a singed line in the white fabric from where a blaster bolt passed near enough to burn the fibers, and it looks slept in. While he doesn't blame her for not changing—everything has been a bit hectic since yesterday, and Marinette is second-in-command after Tikki—seeing the same clothes agitate ugly memories, and guilt settles in alongside the lingering nausea in his gut.

 

She’s also balancing clone trooper rations and a steaming mug of what looks like tea on a tray in her arms, and Adrien frowns, hands stilling.

 

Marinette sets the tray down onto the desk and holds the mug out to him. “Tikki made this tea for you. For the nausea. Since both of us, um, saw you throwing up a lot yesterday.”

 

Adrien holds back a wince. So they’d seen, had they?

 

“Oh, wait, you can’t—sorry,” Marinette hastily apologizes, apparently misinterpreting his silence for hesitation. She sets the mug back down. “You can’t hold it. Just, try to drink it when it’s still hot. And the rations. I didn’t see you at breakfast today. I—I know the food we get might seem like a bit… a bit too much if you’re feeling sick, even though it’s just regular food. But the troop rations are really plain, but still nutritious! They have to be for the clone troopers. You should eat something. They’re dry, so it should be easier to keep down.”

 

Adrien stares at her, overwhelmed by the gestures. They aren’t particularly prodigious… and yet at the same time, they are.

 

They notice. They look out for him. They care about him. And suddenly, that means the world to him.

 

“Thank you,” he whispers.

 

“It’s no problem! Tikki was just—Adrien?”

 

Tears are trickling down his cheeks. “Don’t—it’s okay,” he mumbles in response to Mari’s alarm, and he wipes at them with the heels of his palms, forgetting their half-bandaged state.

 

“Adrien, no, it’s.” Marinette drops down onto the ground beside him. “What’s wrong?”

 

“Nothing, I just... really, really appreciate this. The food, the tea. It’s been a bad day." Adrien takes a deep, shaky breath, working slowly through his thoughts. "But I guess you already know that. Thank you. A lot. Tell Tikki that, too.”

 

Mari smiles a little, and it’s radiant even tinged with concern. Maybe more so. “Of course,” she says. “It’s no problem.”

 

Adrien returns the smile, wiping his eyes more carefully this time.

 

She fidgets anxiously for a moment beside him. “I... If you ever want to talk... My tent’s always open.”

 

“Yeah.” Adrien already regrets lying to one of his only friends. But he's not ready for that conversation. Not yet. Not until he can think, and not until he can look at her without seeing death in their wakes. She deserves a friend who doesn't feel torn apart. “Thanks, Mari. I’ll remember.”

 

“You’re welcome.” She smiles again, and Adrien is grateful to see how much brighter it is.

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by [this](http://panharmonium.tumblr.com/post/120671652664/other-things-i-want-from-a-potential-obi-wan), tho it definitely strayed a bit from mere religious introspection. whoops. sorry about that. ~~not really.~~ would've ended it more neatly too, but this was on-the-spot, and i didn't want to continue further and make it get even crazier.
> 
> (i do have another ml/sw fic in the works tho! this was just a brief sidetracking. so watch out (; )
> 
> about the title: it's not a jab at the jedi code. however, what it _is_ is playing on the misconception around the rule "no attachments" (considering how many people fall into religious pitfalls irl, tbh i wouldn't be surprised if this was common in-universe) versus the jedi's supposedly high esteem and value for life and policy of avoiding murder at all possible costs. a lot of things have become questionable.
> 
> feel free to come find me at [my tumblr](https://primrose-path-of-dalliance.tumblr.com), where i post fandom things and the occasional bit of writing.


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